


Dreams

by MinervaFan



Category: Heroes/La Femme Nikita
Genre: Gen, Spoilers for S4 of La Femme Nikita and S3 of Heroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-19
Updated: 2010-12-19
Packaged: 2020-03-01 04:41:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18793210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MinervaFan/pseuds/MinervaFan
Summary: The woman before her was small, unassuming.  But Angela knew better.  Her dreams never lied.





	Dreams

Title: Dreams  
Author: MinervaFan  
Fandom: Heroes/La Femme Nikita  
Characters: Angela Petrelli, Madeline  
Rating: Gen  
Warnings: Spoilers for S4 of La Femme Nikita and S3 of Heroes  
A/N: Written as a Yule present for [](https://ogew.livejournal.com/profile)[](https://ogew.livejournal.com/)**ogew**.  
Summary: The woman before her was small, unassuming. But Angela knew better. Her dreams never lied.

The woman before her was small, unassuming. But Angela knew better. Her dreams never lied. Sometimes they misled, and sometimes they confused, but they never outright lied. The woman Madeline was the future, and Angela had no intention of letting a little thing like time, distance, or danger stop her from securing a future for the Company.

“Can I help you?” A smooth voice, articulate, warm. Her lips were full and smiled easily, an expression that never quite reached her eyes, Angela noted.

“Just browsing,” she countered, feeling Madeline's eyes crucifying her defenses, a brutal assault on the invisible shell she had built around herself for all of her adult life. A frisson of danger, hidden knifes in that pleasant appearance.

Angela had dreamed the dream three times now. Once after the fall of the Company. Once after her so-called family abandoned her to pursue their own goals instead of rebuilding the Company she had worked so hard to grow. And once again last night, when she had driven through this small New Mexico town on her way to Los Angeles.

“We have lovely poinsettias in stock,” Madeline said, stepping out from behind the counter. The nursery itself was small, filled to the brim with plants both exotic and domestic.

“I never buy them before December 15th,” Angela said. She followed as Madeline began to stroll around the empty shop. She walked slowly, purposefully, no ordinary shopkeeper trying to make an early season sale to an out-of-town tourist. “Your bonsais are lovely,” she noted.

“I'm sorry, but they are not for sale.” A slight hesitation in her voice; anybody else would never have noticed it.

But Angela Petrelli was hardly anybody else. She paused, examining the tiny trees that graced a singular alcove. They were lit from behind, stark and beautiful amidst the relative clutter of potted plants, hanging baskets, and seedlings. Back in New York, she'd never find such a variety outside a commercial greenhouse so close to Christmas. But Bonsai Greenery enjoyed year-round warmth and the obvious expertise of its owner. It was a little oasis in the desert.

“Are they your own personal trees?”

“Yes,” Madeline said softly. “I've cared for them for several years now. I'm rather attached,” she admitted with a tinge of embarrassment in her tone. “You couldn't offer me enough money to part with them.”

“I assure you,” Angela said. “I wouldn't even try.” She pointed to the small bushes growing in pots just beyond the bonsai display. “What about the rosemary?”

“Doing well,” she said, turning away from the bonsais to fetch one of the rosemary plants. It was pruned into the shape of a tiny Christmas tree, a whimsical concession to the season Angela suspected stuck in Madeline's throat like a poorly swallowed pill. Madeline lifted the plant just below her nostrils, breathing in the scent. “I love the smell of rosemary.”

“Especially speared into the flesh of a perfectly seared filet mignon,” Angela said, breathing in the aroma offered by the plant. “Do you know of any place in town where I could find a decent meal?”

Madeline's smile was small but genuine. “I doubt you'll find haute cuisine readily available here in Viscount,” she admitted. “There are several chains near the interstate--” She paused at Angela's expression of distaste. “I thought not. If you're open-minded, I know a wonderful little place just out of town. Not fancy, but authentic and delicious—in a rustic sort of way.”

“Is that an invitation?” Angela knew damned well it hadn't been, but there was just enough hesitation from Madeline to encourage advancement. “Will you join me for lunch? I've been traveling a long time, and it's been quite a while since I've had anyone I wanted to talk to.”

It was true. Claire was gone. Peter was gone. Nathan... Angela closed her eyes and tried not to think about Nathan.

“I would really enjoy the company,” she added.

Madeline looked her over, the smile on her lips never wavering. Angela felt eyes like claws in her flesh, digging, searching, revealing. It was agonizing and intoxicating at the same time, and Angela found herself uncertain if she wanted her visions to be true.

“I'd love to,” Madeline said smoothly. “I can shut up the shop for lunch,” she added.

“Perks of being the boss?”

“You could say that.” She removed the gardening apron she wore, folding it meticulously and placing it on the shelf near the cash register. Angela noted that, while her clothes were hardly designer, they fit her perfectly. Not a hair was out of place, each nail manicured and polished, even the smudges of dirt on her hands seemed to accent rather than detract from her appearance. She wore boots over her jeans, and the button down blouse she wore, powder blue, was crisp and clean. "Just give me a moment to get my bag from the office." It took slightly longer than a moment, but soon enough Madeline returned carrying a simple bag slung over her shoulder.

“Well, then,” Angela said as she followed Madeline through the maze of plants to the main entrance. It was more than she'd expected, an opportunity to talk to this woman and find out her secrets, if possible. Madeline turned the sign to “closed” and opened the door for Angela. She locked it behind them and they stepped out in the warm December afternoon. “Shall I drive?”

Madeline laughed, a dark and throaty sound. “That won't be necessary.” She looked down at the heels Angela wore, and grinned. “You may, however, want to put on a more comfortable pair of shoes.”

*

She'd recognized the woman almost immediately. Even without the Section resources, Madeline kept up with current events. Even now, seven years after her premature “death,” Madeline knew enough to reject the temptation to become ignorant and happy. A fast Internet connection and incredible research skills were hardly comparable to Birkoff's intel—was Birkoff still alive? No, she reminded herself as she waited for Angela Petrelli to catch up to her on the trail. Birkoff was dead. Walter was probably dead, too. She never let her smile waver. These were the names of ghosts, angels with bloody souls, watching from beyond the grave over the lives of an unknowing and ungrateful populace.

Angela Petrelli was East Coast, attached to a son who had been President for a moment. She looked different now. Her hair, her clothes, even her face were purposefully composed to discourage recognition. Madeline could smell the desperation on her as clearly as the Chanel she wore. Madeline knew she'd been connected somehow to an underground organization called the Company. Section had maintained a file on them; minor financial malfeasance, kidnapping, the usual. They'd not been considered a Class A threat in her days with the Section, but Madeline could only guess what had happened once they'd landed one of their own in the White House.

“How much further?” Angela asked as she navigated the rough path to Emilio's. Her dark hair caught in the dusty wind, lifted slightly away from her flawless features as if in protest.

“Just below this hill,” Madeline answered. For all her city girl ways, Angela was tough. She kept up with Madeline, who'd been climbing this trail for the better part of five years now, without even a trace of complaint. “I promise you, it will be worth it.”

*

The place was small, cramped, and unassuming. Angela could almost taste the cilantro in the air, and the sting of jalapeño tickled the back of her throat as she breathed deeply upon entering the tiny dining room. Four tables, unmatched and flanked by creaky chairs, dominated the floor. The only customer she saw was a Hispanic man who looked to be in his early 40s, round-faced and ignoring them as he folded his tortilla around enough meat to feed a small family in Nogales and stuffed the whole thing into his mouth.

Madeline did not stop; she seated them at the table nearest the kitchen door and waited patiently. Within moments, a small Mexican woman came out of the kitchen, her eyes brightening upon seeing Madeline. Their conversation was rapid-fire Spanish, riddled with local slang. While fluid in French and Japanese, Angela's grasp of Spanish was only modest, and she found herself struggling to keep up as the women gossiped and laughed together.

Madeline was vouching for her. Angela caught the words for “friend” and “traveling,” as well as what she guessed to be a slam on tourists. By the time Madeline was finished, their host was looking upon Angela as she would an old friend, or a daughter. She said something to her in Spanish and disappeared back into the kitchen. Angela glanced at Madeline, whose eyes held only a glint of superiority in their clear depths.

“I take it, no menu?” Angela said, and Madeline chuckled.

“Authentic,” she responded. “And since neither Frida nor her husband speak a word of English, we can talk freely.” Her smile was fixed, cool. “For instance, why you sought me out, and what you want from me?”

Angela raised an eyebrow, but smiled as well. “I see...”

“Nobody comes to Viscount on a whim, Angela. And while we are remote, we are not completely isolated.” Madeline reached into her bag and pulled out a folded stack of papers, handing them to Angela. They were computer printouts of photos from the New York Times, Angela and Nathan on the campaign trail. “Now, I'm sure you have business to conduct, and it has nothing to do with buying plants or sampling the native cuisine.”

Angela stared at the picture, her heart breaking at the sight of Nathan, so young and hopeful and beautiful. Without meaning to, she told Madeline her story. Without a single word spoken, her history was revealed, in all its painful, shameful glory, to Madeline's watchful eyes. "You're good," she whispered. Her voice was raw and soft, an echo of its normal sound. "How much do you know?"

"I know about the Company, and your son. I know there have been massive internal changes in the Company over the last couple of years, although I am unable to ascertain the full nature of those changes." Madeline's eyes scanned Angela's face for any sign of expression, and Angela could feel her composure beginning to crack. Was Madeline one of them? Is this how she knew so much? Is this why her dreams had led her here?

"I thought we were discreet," she said.

Madeline smiled, looking up as Frida returned with two bottles of beer. A quick thank you, and she took a sip from her bottle once they were alone again. "You were, very discreet. But the resources I had access to were quite sophisticated, and very thorough. I doubt anyone else knew of your existence, unless of course, you wanted them to."

Angela's eyes perked up. " _Had_ access to?" she repeated.

The smile was there again, and Madeline put her bottle down on the table between them. "You might say that I've retired from active duty. These days, I sell plants to my friends and neighbors in the New Mexico desert."

"And prior to your…retirement?"

"I was in human resources," she said smoothly, and Angela recognized it for the worst sort of lie--the kind that contained a large element of truth. "Am I being interviewed?" she asked.

Angela looked down at the bottle in front of her. Beer wasn't her normal poison of choice, much less when consumed straight from the bottle. But she took a swallow anyway, her face only slightly screwing up at the bitter taste as it fizzed down her throat. "Are you interested in a career change?" she said, coughing slightly against the burning liquid.

"I'm happy where I am," came the silken response. "Any decision to move away from my current situation would be…" She stopped, lowering her head with a self-deprecating chuckle. "Less than prudent."

"I can make it worth your while."

"I doubt that seriously."

Angela could hear the sound of Frida leaning against the kitchen door. She entered the dining room carrying two enormous plates of food, steaming and overwhelmingly aromatic. The two women said nothing as their food was served, despite their waitress's complete ignorance of the English language.

"Enchiladas verdes," Frida said as she put the plate in front of Angela with a nod. "Con arroz rojo." She smiled as Angela accepted the plate. "La placa es muy caliente."

Angela nodded, careful not to touch the plate as Frida served Madeline then extricated herself from the room without a further word. The food looked incredible; she hadn't eaten since leaving Amarillo the night before. Her drive had been long and exhausting, and she still had a long way to go before the end of her road.

'Is there anything I could say to get you out of retirement?" she said, tasting the peppery rice with a firm resolve and nervous palate.

"Again, I seriously doubt it."

"What if I said I needed you?" She let her voice tell the truth. Angela Petrelli trusted her dreams. She trusted them with her life, with the lives of others, even with the fate of her own family. And her dreams said this woman was hope, that this mysterious flower in the desert might be the hope she had been waiting for since Nathan's death. "What if I said you were my last hope?"

Madeline only smiled, and bit into her enchilada with a satisfied sigh. "Delicious," she said, her eyes closed in ecstasy. "Just enough heat, but not a fraction too much, wouldn't you say?"

"I could take you," Angela said. The woman was too cool, too sure of herself. Here in the middle of nowhere, what defenses could she have? Angela had done worse, much worse in her life, than conscripting a person to her own use. "I could force you."

The look in Madeline's eyes spoke volumes of danger inherent in acting upon that threat. "You could try," she admitted, taking a bite of rice. "But I wouldn't suggest it."

"The Company is destroyed," Angela said. "My people are unprotected. I don't know you, I don't know why, but I know in my soul that you can help me. I _know_ that, do you understand?"

"I understand. I also understand that my time is over, and I'm no longer in the business of saving worlds." She shrugged. "I sell plants."

"And your shop could burn to the ground before sunrise…" Angela didn't try to stop the threat in her voice. Madeline was toying with her. She'd given up on her hopes, apparently, and on her dreams for the world. At some point she must have been somebody, done something, cared for something.

But now, she sold plants.

"I'm sorry," Angela said in response to Madeline's tight, nonchalant stare. "I'm sorry. After a while, you forget how to be normal. You forget how to be a real person. You use threats and intimidation the way children use clay and finger paints. Nothing matters anymore, no human dignity, no loyalty beyond the survival of your ideals."

"I can…" Madeline hesitated. "I can certainly understand that."

"I know people," Angela said, a quick glance at the man finishing up his lunch to see if he was eavesdropping. She needn't have bothered. He was staring transfixed at a black and white television showing Mexican soccer. "Very special people, and they're not safe. I've dedicated my life to protecting them, and now I am at a crossroads. I can't tell you how, or why, but I know that you are necessary to the survival of our cause. And I also know--and why, I can't tell--that you would care…if you knew."

That seemed to affect her, just a moment, before the mask came up again. Angela wondered how she must have been, before her "retirement," when Madeline was Madeline--whoever that was. She pushed a little further.

"My son died because of our secret, Madeline. I have another son, and a grand-daughter. I'm doing this for them. Isn't there anyone, anyone at all, you ever loved? Anyone you ever wanted to protect?"

Madeline said nothing, but continued to eat her meal in silence.

*

The walk back to the shop was silent and exhausting. Madeline felt the resentment coming from Angela the entire way. What had she expected? Why had she even sought her out?

At first, she'd suspected an Agency connection. The choice of Emilio's had been more than gastronomic preference; had Madeline suspected even a whiff of Section influence, Angela Petrelli would have been dead before the flan reached the table.

But Angela was not Section. Madeline knew this instinctively, and their conversation at lunch had confirmed it. Angela's concern was with her Company; she doubted the woman even had any knowledge of the Section and its workings.

So the request was real, a plea for help from a desperate woman. Madeline used the time they walked in silence to recall everything she could about the Company from her Section days.

At one point, the group had been very interesting to George and Adrian, although they never shared their reasoning with her. When Operations took over, the Company was downgraded and subsequently ignored.

What were they? How were they in danger?

And why on Earth did they expect her to help them?

Ever since her death in Section, Madeline had kept off the radar as much as possible. She'd kept her profile low, practically invisible, for seven years. She'd not been photographed, she lived alone, she worked under a pseudonym--maintaining her first name because she knew it would be the last name they'd expect her to use, just in case they had their doubts about her non-living status.

Getting back on the grid after all these years was dangerous.

Madeline had everything to lose.

*

The car handle was scorching hot, and Angela gasped as she pulled back her hand in surprise. Without a word, Madeline reached forward and opened it for her without a flinch. Callouses, no doubt from working with the plants.

"I'm sorry I wasted your time," Angela said as she eased into the rental. The seat was hot and the air dusty and warm inside. Her mind raced with possibilities, with schemes and strategies and choices. She hadn't survived this long by giving up, and she knew that if Madeline was supposed to be part of the Company, it would happen, one way or another. "Thank you for lunch."

Madeline leaned over until she was eye to eye with Angela. "I know what it means to be devoted, Angela. And I respect your duty. But it is not a good time for me to develop any sort of visible profile."

 _She's in hiding_ , Angela thought. For what and from whom, she did not know. But she knew Madeline was hiding.

"I understand. I can't say I won't try again."

Madeline smiled as she closed the door to Angela's car. The window was down, and she leaned forward to hand Angela a slip of paper. On it, she'd printed an anonymous email address. "Keep in touch. Maybe…"

Angela smiled, her fingertips brushing the other woman's hands as she took the precious slip of paper. "Thank you."

And even if Madeline didn't know yet why Angela was so grateful…

Angela's dreams did.

The End  



End file.
